


Anchors

by thesometimeswarrior



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior
Summary: “It really was an accident, ya know. Your science fair project.""What?" Stanford doesn’t look up from the task before him, sanding wood that will—theoretically, eventually—form the skeleton of the Stan-o-War II, the reinvention and rebirthing of that old childhood fantasy, pulled into reality by the work of his—their—two hands. His and his brother’s. And this feels important too, constructing something with Stanley—a test run for their time alone at sea, which they sorely need after all these years, yes, but also a way to bring something into existence together.Stanford and Stanley get reacquainted.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 13
Kudos: 132





	Anchors

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for this fandom. (I just finished Gravity Falls for the first time!) Hope you enjoy!

“It really was an accident, ya know.”

“What?” Stanford doesn’t look up from the task before him, sanding wood that will—theoretically, eventually—form the skeleton of the Stan-o-War II, the reinvention and rebirthing of that old childhood fantasy, pulled into reality by the work of his— _their_ —two hands. His and his brother’s. 

It’s grounding work, for several reasons. For one, the tactile sensation is itself like an anchor. After decades of phasing in and out of dimensions, he needs these reminders—the micro-scratches the sand papers leaves on his skin, the tiny splinters from the wood, the ache in his so-much-older-than-he-remembers arm as he moves it rapidly back and forth—that he is, in fact, here. _Home_. And even though he has been for weeks, it’s only now—now that Bill is gone and with him all the imminent threats to existence—that Stanford can truly begin to grasp that reality.

But there is more value to this project than that. It also represents, for the first time since they were children, something that he and Stanley can do together. Incidentally, this is also why he’d insisted on building this boat, rather than buying one. It’s true that neither of them are _wealthy_ —but they’re not penniless boys anymore. Stanley has—or had, until very recently—an income, and while Stanford had depleted his grant money, he’d had savings before he disappeared, and they had accumulated interest over thirty years. And, more likely than not they’ll buy parts later to augment their creation, but this feels important too, _constructing_ something with Stanley—a test run for their time alone at sea, which they sorely need after all these years, yes, but also a way to bring something into existence together, after having already destroyed so much.

“It was an accident,” Stanley repeats. “Your science fair project.”

Stanford stops sanding, but doesn’t look up. “I know that.” 

“Uh…Do ya? Because forty years ago—”

“I was a _child_ , Stanley!”

“Oh you were, huh?” And all at once the tenderness, that vulnerability that had been in Stanley’s voice a moment before, is gone, replaced with barbed sarcasm. He pushes into Stanford’s field of vision, leans against the workbench, so that it’s more effort to resist looking at him than it would be to meet his eye. “A child who was so ready to up and go to California, and leave his family behind—”

“I never wanted to leave you behind!”

“Well, you had a funny way of showing it.”

“I just, I…” Stanford looks up at last. “I was tired of being a _freak_ , Stanley! And, for one…one _instant_ …I thought I had this opportunity…I thought I could be somewhere with people like me, where I would _belong_ , and then you…it all…and you seemed _happy_ about what had happened…” He sighs. For thirty years, he phased in and out of dimensions, and this is a similar sensation. Fading in and out of decades. He’s sixty-something. Then, in an instant he’s eighteen again—the exact moment he lost that opportunity, the look in the college admissions officer’s eyes, a quick glance at his own hand, as he reaches it out to them… “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You don’t expect _me_ to understand? _Me_? Uh, hello, Poindexter! I was there being a freak right alongside you—”

“It was _different_ —”

“Why? Because I only have ten fingers? Because they called me different names? You had your brains. You wanna know what I had? You. That’s it. Pa was railing on me, and everyone in that school, everyone in that _town_ , thought I was trash, and they were probably right, but I didn’t care about _any_ of that, because I had you. And you had me. And I always thought that that—that _I_ —meant something to you, but—”

“Of course that meant something to me.” 

“So then you were just so willing to throw me away? I made one dumb mistake, and—”

“I never wanted to throw you away! It just… _I_ just…it just _happened_.” He sighs, then turns back to the workbench, lays a soft hand on the wood. The splinters poke at his six fingers like a reminder of where and when he is, even as he’s pulled backward in time. “You know, our whole childhood, I always thought that everything you said about the boat, leaving together, getting out of New Jersey—I thought it was a dream you concocted for _my_ benefit. It was this fantasy you developed for _me_. I didn’t realize…I never realized until those college people came, that it was a dream you dreamed for _you_ too. I should have seen that. I thought you mattered to me much more than I mattered to you, and I should have _known_ …I should have…I’m sorry, Stanley.”

Stanley’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and Stanford cannot blame him. It’s been months since he’s been back, weeks since Stanley had fully recovered his memory, and, Stanford realizes with a lurch of shame in his gut, this is the first time in that span (the first time in _forty years_ ), that he has apologized….

Stanley softens. “Yeah, well. So am I. About the portal, the science fair, all of it.” He pauses. “I never wanted to ruin your future. I was okay with us growing _up_. With _you_ growing up. I just didn’t want us to grow _apart_ , ya know? It never had to be treasure hunting on a boat. I’d have gone with ya to California, when you went to that fancy-shmancy college. Pa wouldn’t have paid for it, but I woulda come up with something. They need people to scrape gum off the boardwalk in California too—or they did, they probably have robots for that sorta crap now—and I wouldn’t have minded so much…”

The gaze in his eyes grows distant. How must these memories—lived, then lost, then recovered—feel to him now? But, Stanford decides, it’s probably not even a memory that his brother is lost in so much as the _might-have-beens_ , all of those blissful, scary hypotheticals. 

Once, so many years ago, Stanford had found himself lost in hypotheticals too. When he was a boy, every time the bullies appeared with their cruel epithets, every time he looked down at his own hand, he would start to drown in what his future might be: himself, all alone, stuck somewhere he didn’t belong. 

But in those moments, he’d had something to draw him back to the proper time and reality. A hand on his shoulder. An affectionate punch. A High Six.

It’s his turn.

“Well,” Stanford lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Stanley tenses at the touch, then seems to sink into it. “We have a boat _now_.”

It’s an anchor and an olive branch.

“Yeah.” Stanley claps him on the back, sniffles, then grins. “That treasure’s not gonna find itself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I love comments!


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